In 1890, Ameen Esperh Hamawi was born a Christian Arab, in Damascus, when it was part of the Ottoman Empire, then enclosing most of the Mediterranean, Adriatic, Red and Black Seas within its boundaries. At that time Tripoli, Damascus and Beirut were all subject to Turkish Islamic rule, which was harsh for “non-believers” and in 1906, Ameen joined a steady flow of Christian immigrants to the west.
He arrived with his two cousins and his oldest brother in Boston via the White Star steamship line. They lived together, in the city with his cousins’ mother, who had immigrated about two years earlier. His parents sent him to join his aunt because they feared for his safety under Ottoman rule as well as his financial security, given that he preferred to skip school and go on adventures— like joining a caravan to the holy land — while neglecting his study.
Upon arrival in Boston, his name became Ameen Esperh Hamwey and over 40 years later, as a young boy, I grew to know him as “Giddo,” my maternal grandfather. A great deal would transpire during that time that had a significant impact on the world I was born into.
That 16-year-old Syrian boy received a welcome and good care from his relatives already in Boston. My mother recalls a photo, sadly now lost, with him in a brand new suit of clothes with starched collar and neatly knotted tie, beaming out a broad smile, apparently very pleased with his new life in America.
Education was still not his first priority and he chose instead, a series of jobs selling various mercantile goods in the greater Boston area, including Somerville and Cambridge. While he also sold in some stores, he preferred to go out on the road, on foot, carrying a large sack of fine linen goods, door to door in the most prosperous neighborhoods, some as far away as Cape Cod. After about five years of selling and saving, he was in a position to help his mother and father make the long journey to join him and his brother in Boston. About five years after that, the family purchased and moved into Valley Farm on Rockland Street in South Natick.
With home and livelihood reasonably settled at 25 years old, Ameen married a neighbor’s daughter, Rose Noor Homsey, with whom he raised a family of seven. There were four boys, Wilbur, Samuel, Joseph and James, as well as three girls, Jeanette, Adele, my mother and Louise. I knew my grandmother as “Tata.”
His peddled products soon grew to include oriental rugs, which he sold first in hotel lobbies, having driven there in one of Henry Ford’s early Model Ts. After leaving Natick for a while and investing in and living in rental properties in Somerville and Cambridge, the family moved back to South Natick, in 1934, to the home I remember best, on Eliot Street, by the intersection with South St., across from the bend in The Charles River and the Stillman Farm. There was a cow for milking, a lamb, a duck and a flock of chickens.
During the Depression, when Ameen was in his 40s, he opened what would become his primary business enterprise for the rest of his life. A.E. Hamwey Sons oriental rug shop, offering sales, repair and cleaning of fine rugs, opened on East Central Street, in what had previously been a chocolates shop. It was adjacent to the Colonial Theater, which opened its doors less than 10 years earlier in 1929. He also studied in a Natick school program for older immigrants to become naturalized citizens, a step he took in 1942. Samuel, my mother and Joseph were the children most active in the rug business. I remember the shop and the Eliot Street home from the early 50s when I was old enough to form strong memories.
In 1947, before I could form any memories, my dad met my mother at the shop, where she hand-repaired the intricate patterns of the thick wool rugs. Dad would pick up and deliver rugs that needed cleaning at his dad’s dry cleaning and laundry operation. From what I hear, my dad was a fast worker, as they were married at the Eliot Church in South Natick in November of that year, 13 months before my arrival on the scene.
As a young boy, my fondest memories of Giddo, a very serious and mustachioed fellow who I always feared a little, were him taking me from the rug shop to the Colonial next door. He knew the theater manager well and as a result I was always treated to a free afternoon at the movies, double feature, cartoons and newsreels, along with the snacks I bought with the quarters he had slipped into my palm. Beyond that, the multitude of beautiful rugs and their strong woolen aroma are the most lasting memories of the shop.
At the house, I remember Sunday dinners with Tata, Giddo, aunts, uncles and cousins, when we would eat Syrian dishes unknown to my peers. After the meal Giddo, my uncles and my dad would take turns playing “tawla” while calling out the desired numbers on their rolls or spouting hexes, in Arabic, on opponent’s rolls with great animation and bluster. Tawla or “table” in Arabic, is known as backgammon in the west. It is a game I love; having been taught early, but still cannot play without hearing the slapping of the men on the ancient, wood marquetry game sets Giddo used and those horrible sounding hexes ringing in my memory.
I was only 15 when Giddo passed away in 1963, only a few months after Tata, his wife of 53 years, left us. I would have liked to learn more about fine rugs and how to play a respectable set of tawla, curses and all. Yet, as I’ve grown older, I see so much of Giddo’s face and expressions when I look in the mirror and I have always loved to buy and sell all sorts of things. So, the mark of the 16 -year-old boy who came to Natick looking for a better life, is pretty indelible after all.
John Merritt of Natick can be reached at envirojam@yahoo.com.